


Nothing Suits Me (Like a Suit)

by LoveKhaleesi



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Suits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 10:26:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7099069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveKhaleesi/pseuds/LoveKhaleesi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don’t let anyone fool you--Enjolras is a merciless fucking asshole.</p><p>No, really, he is.</p><p>Grantaire has been so good, so well-behaved, making such an effort to get over his thing for the man, and it’s almost worked a few times, he swears it has, but now here the asshole comes, strolling into The Musain wearing a suit of all things, like that’s normal, like it’s nothing, and Grantaire might’ve gotten used to what Enjolras looks like most of the time--much like one gets used to staring directly at the Sun--but he has no defenses against Enjolras a suit. He didn’t know he had to have defenses against Enjolras in a suit. No one told him he had to have defenses against Enjolras in a suit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Suits Me (Like a Suit)

**Author's Note:**

> No suits were harmed in the writing of this fic.

Don’t let anyone fool you--Enjolras is a merciless fucking asshole.

No, really, he is.

Grantaire has been so good, so well-behaved, making such an effort to get over his thing for the man, and it’s almost worked a few times, he swears it has, but now here the asshole comes, strolling into The Musain wearing a suit of all things, like that’s normal, like it’s nothing, and Grantaire might’ve gotten used to what Enjolras looks like most of the time--much like one gets used to staring directly at the Sun--but he has no defenses against Enjolras a suit. He didn’t know he had to have defenses against Enjolras in a suit. No one told him he had to have defenses against Enjolras in a suit.

It feels like someone should have told him, but that’s the Universe for you. Useless and a heartless bitch.

He slumps, low in his seat, and lets out a small whimper that thankfully goes unnoticed by Enjolras. Courfeyrac notices, because he’s almost as much of an asshole as Enjolras, but he at least has the grace to pat Grantaire’s knee comfortingly and launch into a tirade on the merits of boxers versus briefs, which does little to distract Grantaire from the problem at hand, though he appreciates the effort all the same.

With a sigh, he reaches for his drink, downs half of it. It does little to settle his nerves. He needs--something. _Anything_. As long as it distracts him for the nearly obscene fit of the black suit, clinging to every inch of Enjolras, as if it wants to be as close to him as possible. It’s not like Grantaire can’t blame it, though he really wishes someone would’ve warned him that he would one day be jealous of a suit, of all things.

To his left, Bahorel asks Enjolras how the interview went. That’s reassuring, at least--he was wearing it for an interview, just for an interview, he’s not going to start wearing suits everyday, Grantaire won’t have to miraculously get used to the sight of Enjolras in a suit. All he needs to do is get through today.

Enjolras’ reply goes right over Grantaire’s head, who’s really doing all he can by trying not to ogle. Enjolras will have to forgive him if his brain has left the building. Not that Enjolras ever notices or cares about the state of Grantaire’s brain. Not that they do much besides argue and bicker when Grantaire’s capable of forming full sentences.

It doesn’t get easier when the meeting starts. Enjolras is the one to lead them, as he always is, and if he is powerful and confident and mesmerizing and _awful,_ even in skinny jeans and ratty Converse, it’s nothing to what he is like in a suit, looking as if the whole world is going to bend to his every will just because he wants it to.

Grantaire is inclined to agree.

And then things get worse.

Enjolras moves a lot as he talks, he always has, and the inside of the Musain has never been particularly cold. First, he shrugs off his jacket and that’s fine, that’s okay, that actually makes it a little bit easier to make him focus, Grantaire is actually thankful for that. But after the jacket, Enjolras loosens his tie, and after the tie he unbuttons about half of his shirt, and once he’s done with that he actually has the gall to roll up his sleeves.

Grantaire could cry.

“Did we order a striper?” he asks Courfeyrac in a stage whisper, because maybe an argument with Enjolras will make it easier to breathe, to remind him of all the ways in which they never work. “Because I think I’d remember if we ordered a striper. And that I’d have brought money for that.”

The entire room takes in a sharp intake of breath, readying for an explosion, but when Grantaire chances a look at Enjolras there is a flush setting on those perfect cheeks and a look on his face Grantaire can’t quite decipher.

“You couldn’t afford me if I was a stripper,” he says, primly, and maybe Courfeyrac can be a terrible influence on _anyone_ , even Enjolras.

Grantaire offers him a mock salute, before leaning down to pick a sketchbook from inside his backpack. That’ll be a perfect distraction. That has to be a perfect distraction. That’s all he needs, just a distraction.

Everything will be fine once he has a distraction.

He can draw--kittens. He likes kittens, kittens are sweet and innocent, kittens have nothing to do with Enjolras in a suit. That’ll be just fine, that’ll be--

“Am I boring you, Grantaire?” Enjolras drawls, startling him so much he drops the sketchbook.

Grantaire actually fucking _squeaks_. Why, why is this his life? Bending down to pick up the dropped sketchbook, he sends up a silent prayer to whatever divinity is listening. It doesn’t matter which one, he believes in none of them. He makes a big show out of looking for it and straightening up in his chair again, hoping Enjolras has turned his attention somewhere else.

Of course, no such luck, because Enjolras doesn’t fucking let things go.

“So, what is it?” Enjolras asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re distracted, you haven’t said anything all meeting--and you haven’t even criticized anything I said today. What’s the matter with you? Are you dying?”

“Missed my dulcet tones, did you?” Grantaire says sweetly, because he’s never learned to left well enough alone.

“Alright, that’s enough from the two of you,” Combeferre says firmly, standing up. “Time out for both of you.”

Enjolras’ head whips around to glare at Combeferre, though the man remains undisturbed. “If you don’t talk about whatever it is now, you’re going to derail the rest of the meeting and nothing will get done.” 

Grantaire has to admit he has a point--it’s happened more than once, after all.

Enjolras looks non too pleased about it, though he does offer Combeferre a curt nod, picking up his jacket and turning around to walk down the stairs towards the cold night air.

Grantaire stays sitting for a moment, defying Combeferre’s order, but after a moment of everyone staring right at him, even he relents, follows after Enjolras.  

He finds Enjolras outside, leaning against the wall and wearing the damned jacket again. Grantaire can’t really begrude him that--it’s April, it’s cold outside--though he does anyway. Enjolras could at least have had the decency to button up his shirt, though, or of fixing the damned tie. 

“I hate you so much sometimes,” he grumbles vaguely, before fishing around in his pocket for a cigarette and letting out a long string of curses when he realizes he’s left it inside.

“Does having to talk to me bother you this much?” Enjolras asks, missing the point completely. At Grantaire’s shrug, he looks uncertain, hands twitching at his sides. “Have I done something to upset you? I know I tend to be--intense at the best of times, and thoughtless at the worst, but I didn’t mean--whatever it was that caused this.”

That’s the worst part about this whole thing--he has no idea what he’s doing to Grantaire. No fucking idea.

“You,” Grantaire accuses. He cards a hand through his hair, barely resists the urge to storm away from Enjolras.

Time stretches on uncomfortably.

“Are you going to finish that sentence?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire considers this. “No, not really,” he says after a short pause. “I think it summarizes the problem perfectly.”

“So I’m the problem?” There must’ve been something a lot stronger in his beer than actual beer and Grantaire must be a lot drunker than he thought, because he could swear Enjolras sounds hurt.

“You’re not the problem, Apollo,” Grantaire says, even though he really should keep his mouth and let this conversation fucking end, because Lord knows he’s only going to embarass himself further. “Maybe the world’s the problem. Maybe there’s no fucking problem. Have you ever thought of that?”

Enjolras narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Something is bothering you,” he says. “I know it is. You’ve been quiet all meeting, you haven’t picked apart anything I said--”

“That would be a pretty good indication that nothing’s bothering me.”

“In anyone else, yes,” Enjolras says. “Not when it comes to you. You always argue, that’s what you do. That’s what _we_ do. Today, you’re not arguing. It’s weird.” His nostrils flare. “I don’t like it.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows shoot up. “You don’t like it when I don’t argue with you?”

“It’s fucking weird, Grantaire,” Enjolras complains. “Grantaire--”

“Just fucking drop it, Enjolras.”

“Just tell me what’s wrong, _please_ ,” Enjolras asks quietly and that’s not fucking fair, because an order Grantaire could’ve handled, an order Grantaire could’ve ignored, but he’s got no idea what to do when Enjolras gets soft and quiet like this, when Enjolras actually asks for things, looking far more uncertain than anyone who looks like that in a suit has any right of looking.

Oh, well. He’s fucked anyway, might as well do it throughly. Like jumping off a cliff. “It’s--” He swallows. “It’s the suit, okay? It’s the fucking suit.”

He looks down at his feet, refuses to meet Enjolras’ eyes.

“My suit offends you?” Enjolras asks, looking completely at a loss.

“I’ve been so good,” Grantaire whines. “So, so fucking good. About this. About you. About not acting like the total loser I really am when it comes to you.  And then you come along tonight, wearing that fucking suit, and I try so hard to be good, I do, but you have the guts to show up looking like that and rolling up your fucking sleeves and that’s not fair, Enjolras. That’s not fucking fair at all.”

Enjolras says nothing, remains quiet and still by Grantaire’s side.

“Look, it’s not--” Grantaire tries, before letting out a short bitter laugh. “Look, it’s fine. It’ll be fine. Whatever. I’ve gotten used to it most of the time, but I wasn’t ready for the suit tonight--I didn’t know I had to get ready for the suit tonight--so. This conversation. But it’s fine, okay? Don’t--don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“I am going to make a big deal out of it,” Enjolras says, and he sounds--God, Grantaire has no idea how to discribe how he sounds like, except it doesn’t fucking matter, because the moment he’s done speaking he’s pushing Grantaire up against the wall and pressing himself flush against Grantaire and _what_? What the actual fuck is actually happening? “You have no idea how much of a big deal I’m going to make out of it,” he promises, and then he’s pressing his lips to Grantaire’s neck. Acting solely on instinct, Grantaire tips his head back, gives Enjolras unimpeded access to his throat. Enjolras leaves a trail of kisses all the way up towards Grantaire’s mouth, stops when their lips are inches away from each other.

“You are such an asshole,” he says, and it’s the fondest anyone’s ever sounded when insulting him. “Have you seriously been tugging on my pigtails this whole time?”

“You’ll never be able to prove it,” Grantaire says, and his heart is stammering in his chest and his hands are fidgeting of their own accord, but Enjolras is warm and lovely and pressed up against him and it’s _perfect_.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Enjolras says cheerfully, and does so.

—

Enjolras makes a point of wearing a suit as often as possible after that.

Grantaire doesn’t have it in himself to complain.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the HIMYM song. 
> 
> Come say [hi](http://arcoiriseglitter.tumblr.com/).


End file.
